


And Still

by desrose



Category: Askewniverse
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, and slurs, basically jay has a filthy mouth, mentions of drug use and overdose, so many F-bombs ahead, warning lots and lots of profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desrose/pseuds/desrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Banky lost Holden.  Randal lost Dante.  So he should’ve fucking known it’d only be a matter of time before he lost his own tubby motherfucker, Lunchbox.  Silent Bob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Still

Jay couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the fucking world. 

 

Hell, in his lifetime he’d seen shit.  Fucked up shit.  Shit most normal people didn’t know existed.   

 

And it wasn’t all from being on the God-crap ecstasy for most of his fucked up life either. 

 

He’d seen the extravagant shit, like demons and angels… he’d been called a fucking “prophet” for Christ’s sake. 

 

But when you spend most of your free time _not_ running around shit-busy, just hanging out in front of a Goddamn Quick Stop, you tend to notice things.  Fucked up things.  Things that made mouth-to-ass or eating-pussy seem almost… insignificant to him. 

 

That’s how fucked up those things could be.  Distracting shit. 

 

It wasn’t just what he saw anymore either; some of the things he heard were pretty fucked up too.  He wasn’t talking about fucking drunken ass-wipes chortling over how ‘good’ they had it, how much pussy they’d gotten over the last week or so.  He knew those were fucking lies.  

 

No, what bothered him were the fucking _truths_. 

 

Hell, he needed a way to get high—high enough not to hear this shit anymore, or at least not care. 

 

But when the shit pertained to him, directly or indirectly, well, it was a fucking pain in the ass to just ignore it… or worse, walk away. 

 

That was his problem.  He just stayed in one frigging place all the time.  He never got the fuck up to walk away. 

 

Two freaking friendships fucked up for life before his very eyes. 

 

God, he _hated_ that.  He hated _watching_ it; he hated fucking _listening_ to the shit hit the fan. 

 

So why was he always somehow fucking involved? 

 

Is this what that bitch of a deity meant when She said they were “prophets”?  Was he a fucking plague of some sort? 

 

And when the hell was he gonna catch whatever shit was going around?

 

Banky and Holden.  Dead to each other. 

 

Randal and Dante.  As good as dead to each other, no matter what either one of them thinks. 

 

He’d given _them_ a chance, he knew he should’ve held on to the fucking cash.

 

And as for Banky and Holden, fucking Finger Cuffs…  The girl herself wasn’t a total bitch, he would’ve fucked her himself given the chance… would’ve liked seeing her fuck another girl even more…

 

But it’s like a frigging Yoko Ono syndrome round here!  These fucks being best friends for _years_ , before this chick just comes along and messes everything the crap up…

 

That’s why he stays away from bitches and sluts.  He’d fuck ‘em, hell yes, but beyond that what the hell were they good for?  For him, they didn’t have a point beyond freaking hot sex.

 

But Banky lost Holden.  Randal lost Dante. 

 

So he should’ve fucking known it’d only be a matter of time before he lost his own tubby motherfucker, Lunchbox. 

 

Silent Bob. 

 

For as long as he’d known the chubby bastard, he’d had only one thing on his fucking mind… besides weed and getting scored that is. 

 

Like a freaking geyser, Old Fucking Faithful, he’d spout out that Amy shit once every couple of years. 

 

Reminding Jay that, given a fucking choice, he’d leave him in an instant for the bitch. 

 

Hell, Bob would probably commit murder, Catholic fucking altar boy he may be, to get that piece of pussy back. 

 

He’d been ‘chasing Amy’ for so long, it only figures he’d fucking catch up eventually. 

 

Only it wasn’t the tubby motherfucker who found her. 

 

Jay did.

 

*~*~*

 

Jay’s fucked up excuse of a “father” had finally passed away, doing the only good thing he’d ever done in his life for Jay…

 

Leaving him a kick ass sum of money behind. 

 

That was how fucked up his relationship with his father, hell with his whole fucked up family had been.  They meant _nothing_ to him. 

 

A shit worthy accident of fate.  That was it.

 

Somewhere up there the Voice of God was laughing his fucking ass off.  Well he could kiss Jay’s ass for all he cared… 

 

He probably wouldn’t even have gone to get the loot, no matter how much coke could’ve come out of it, if it weren’t for his share having $75,000 dollars.  Exactly enough to reopen the Quick Stop.  He’d told Bob about it earlier and Bob hadn’t made him go get it, hadn’t made him attend the fucking funeral, but when those two motherfuckers were fighting… 

 

Bob hated fighting… _that_ kind of fighting.  He was good with the rest of the violence and shit.  Hell, he was better than _good_ at it… he hurled fucking angels from the back of trains. 

 

But fighting between friends—any kind of fucked up that gets emotional—and Bob just goes to pieces. 

 

When he couldn’t say anything useful, Jay could see the fucker actually felt _guilty_ over it. 

 

And as he’d said before, there was nothing sadder than watching a tubby motherfucker weep like a fucking child.

 

So he’d made the offer. 

 

He wouldn’t of if he’d known what it’d cost _him_. 

 

He wasn’t _that_ fucked up selfless. 

  
And he wasn’t talking about the shit blood money.

 

So he went to Trenton, New Jersey right?  To his old family home.  And saw his mother and his sister and fucked up their attempts to lock him into rehab.  Then he saw his brother…

 

…and her. 

 

_The fucking Amy bitch!_

 

He’d steal Bob’s wallet for all kinds of crap, Jay never carried one on his own person, and every time he’d open it for money or smokes, a picture of his Bob and that cunt would stare straight up at him. 

 

He’d had to control so many urges to just shred the damn thing. 

 

_Because_ _his Bob_ _was_ _smiling_ _in it._  

 

The one directly _underneath_ was of him and Bob, but they were all posed fucking James Bond and Pussy Galore style—Bob doing his trademark head nod at the camera, looking chilled— _neither_ of them were smiling…

 

Well Jay was. 

 

A hint of a kiss-my-ass-world smarmy smirk.

 

So anyway he’d recognize her.  _Of course he’d recognize her..._  

 

Just not as his brother’s fiancée. 

 

From the moment he’d got in the place he was fucking out of it.  He hadn’t brought Bob along, wouldn’t subject him to that crap.  He just wanted to get the fucking money and then get the fucking hell out. 

 

He tried not to say a word to her.  At all.  His brother making some sardonic comment of “that’s just how he is.”  He tried to ignore her, but the bitch wouldn’t relent until she got him to say something…

 

And when he did, she laughed at it. 

 

And he couldn’t stop talking to her afterwards, she was the only sane one in that hellhole.  Plus he was morbidly curious as to what kind of fucker this bitch had to be to have Bob’s heart.  He didn’t mention Bob but he asked her anything and everything.  It was like he was on some kind of fucking secret mission, like if he freaking had to he would’ve resorted to shitass torture if that’s what it took…

 

…damn him to fucking hell and back but, shit, he _had_ to know. 

 

What was it this chick had on his Bob?

 

Worse, turned out she was a pretty okay pussy.  Not a hundred percent—hell, not even ten fucking percent—into his brother, just looking for a quick fix to her problems.  A way out. 

 

Now where had he heard that shit before? 

 

Got her drunk enough, let the name slip, and she wouldn’t stop talking about the ‘man she once had.’  Every time Jay had to bite his tongue hard enough to bleed to keep from telling her Bob was _his_. 

 

In the end, heavily under the influence, she offered to fuck him. 

 

And it was a tempting offer. 

 

He could get even with fucking everyone that way… it was like the answer to all his problems.  In the most fucked up worst way possible.

 

Fucking her would mean he’d get to see what all the fuss over this cunt was about. 

 

Fucking her he could shove it in his brother’s face, he could gloat to her, and shame Bob… all in one breath. 

 

But he couldn’t fucking do it. 

 

For the first time in his fucking life, Jay wasn’t aroused by a perfect pair of fucking tits. 

 

Next day he got the money and got the fuck out of dodge, but when he got back and unpacked he found her cell number stowed away with the rest of his clothes and shit.    

 

_Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!_

He could just leave it there.  It wasn’t any of his fucking business who Silent Bob wanted to screw.

 

Hell, Banky stepped aside for Alyssa.

 

Randal stepped aside for Becky.

 

Who the fuck said he had to do the same?  Who the fuck said he had to have a fucking conscience?

 

So what if Holden was happy?  He talked a bit with Banky when their fucking characters were stolen by Hollywood and they never got the annuity.  Banky was thriving.  He had his own business.  His own comic books. 

 

He was fucking miserable without his best bud. 

 

And then there was Randal.  He could’ve sworn that Randal wouldn’t hold it together through the whole fucking wedding.  Being best man, he was frigging _right_ _there_ when the priest asked if anyone objected!  If looks could kill, the fucking holy priest would’ve burst into holy fucking flames. 

 

But he didn’t say a word.  And watching the sad bastard wander aimlessly through the Quick Stop while the newlyweds took their honeymoon was probably one of the saddest fucking sights Jay’d ever seen…

 

They all say they’re happy.  Some ‘if he’s happy, I’m happy’ transference shit going on.  Well, at least they all _look_ happy.  Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe they don’t have to _be_ happy if they look it.

 

But nothing was ever the same.  After all the fucked up words he heard that they could never take back, nothing was ever the fucking same. 

 

Still, Jay couldn’t help but wonder if Bob was happy…

 

_Actually_ happy.

 

When he got back, for days it was like the secret was killing him or some other fucked up shit.  He sank into a truly fucked up depression every time he thought about it.  He’d end up staring at Bob for hours on the street, not even looking away when Bob looked at him with a question.  It went on so long that Bob even voiced that question eventually.  But Jay was, like, shut up or something.  Shut off.  Like fucking rock or stone or something that couldn’t feel; he wouldn’t budge.  He ended up not saying anything, which of _course_ tipped Bob that something was off.  When the hell did Jay ever shut the fuck up? 

 

And when Bob would pull out the stereo, he couldn’t dance. 

 

The music.  It was like he never heard it.

 

Bob.  It was like he never _saw_ him. 

 

And he fucking _knew_ what he had to do.  He _had_ to say it, say _something_ , or _it_ _would fucking kill him!_

 

Not that he thought death would’ve been too bad an alternative, given his situation…

 

So one night he stomped through their fucking shared apartment, knocking over everything in his path and punching every wall from his to Bob’s room. 

 

In his scratched and bleeding fist, by the time he got there, was Amy’s fucking number.  He practically knocked the wind out of Bob as he thrust the crumpled piece of crappy paper into his chest and left slamming the door, screaming, “I want you the fuck out by morning, you piece of shit.” 

 

Bob yelled back at him for an explanation, the first time Jay had ever heard him yell, but he had no more words for the shithead.

 

It ended up that Jay was the one that left, that very night.  No doubt while Bob was busy calling up his precious piece of ass. 

 

He didn’t know where to go.  The Quick Stop would’ve been a good choice, he could’ve used a cigarette, but he couldn’t _deal_ with those fucking morons right then.  Fucking _estranged_ morons. 

 

He was the fucking moron. 

 

But in the end, Bob had won out. 

 

Bob had won everything. 

 

There was just no such thing as a fucking ‘heterosexual life mate.’ 

 

So what the hell was left for him?  Certainly not Jersey, too many memories here. 

 

Nothing on the west coast, they’d been cross-country together there too.  Los Angeles, Vegas… hadn’t Bob wanted to be a dancer there once?

 

No fucking Wisconsin or anything in that direction either, hell, was there anywhere in the whole fucking U.S. that he hadn’t been with Bob at one point or another?   

 

He couldn’t afford a plane ticket.  He’d left all his money behind.  Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_  Europe and all its fuckable chicks were out of reach, Canada was gay, and he’d be killed in Mexico…plus he didn’t know how to ask for drugs and shit in Spanglish. 

 

He’d take a bus north. 

 

Anywhere but this Godforsaken—BOB-forsaken—place. 

 

So New York was his best bet, the one he fucking took.  There were thousands of homeless bastards there, surely room enough for one more…

 

He’d been homeless before after all—before Bob, though the fuck didn’t know about it, he thought _he_ had his secrets—he could sure as hell do it again. 

 

He didn’t need the fat ass. 

 

*~*~*

 

It takes three weeks for Bob to find him, and Jay doesn’t know how in hell the tubby motherfucker managed to do it.

 

He can’t recall anything.  He doesn’t even know where the fuck he is.  All he knows is when he wakes up in a bed, and not a fucking cardboard box, Bob is sleeping in a chair at his bedside. 

 

Bob looks horrible, but Jay is in shit fucking _pain_...

 

He looks around and recognizes that he’s in a hospital; he’s got tubes stuck up his nose and a needle in the back of his hand that hurts like a bitch. 

 

Jay recognizes the symptoms he’s feeling from before.  He must have really fucked up big time. 

 

He tries to use his other hand, not the one attached to the IV, to get the respirator tubes out of his nose.  But he realizes too late that Bob is clutching onto it like a fucking lifeline.

 

The movement wakes up Bob. 

 

Bob opens his eyes and Jay stares back.

 

Bob’s eyes widen to frigging saucers. 

 

_Shit.  Oh shit…_

 

A long fucked up moment goes on between them, just stupidly staring at one another, until Jay forces himself to look away. 

 

_Fuck, Bob._

He’s seen too much to ignore, the fat ass’s eyes are bloodshot and Jay’s even noticed the tear stains on his face. 

 

His Bob’s been crying…

 

Except he wasn’t _his_ Bob anymore, Jay reminds himself firmly.  He belongs to that cunt Amy now. 

 

“Jay…”  Bob whispers brokenly, _brokenly_ , and Goddammit if something inside Jay doesn’t break a little. 

 

_Fuck_.

 

“Wha…”  Jay can’t get the words out at first.  His mouth’s dry, and it’s not because Bob’s there.  No fucking way. 

 

He swallows and starts again, “Why you here, Fat Ass?  How the _fuck_ did you find me?”

 

Jay stares at the whitewashed wall and _Does Not_ _Look_ at the Fucker.    

 

“You overdosed… on heroin,” comes the quiet fucking reply after the span of a few fucking years. 

 

Jay suspected as much.    

 

“Tell me shit I don’t know,” Jay rasps harshly, not giving a shit about that.  Though he can’t remember doing it.

 

The bastard’s grip on his hand tightens to the point of pain.

 

“Oww!  _Shit_!” Jay hisses, yanking his hand away, “Fuck Bob!  That _hurts_!”

 

“Jay…”  Bob’s voice is still deathly quiet; as if he’s afraid Jay will shatter if he speaks too loud.  “Did you do it on purpose?”    

 

Jay frowns, “Hell if I know.  Why the frick do you care anyway?” 

 

Remembering why Bob fucking doesn’t, Jay looks around.  “Where’s the fucking bitch, Amy?  She in the cafeteria or something?”

 

“She’s not here.”  Bob whispers, again with the low voice.  It’s beginning to drive Jay frigging _crazy!_

 

“Speak up, asshole!  And what do you mean she’s not here?  Where the fuck is she?  And why the fuck aren’t you _with_ _her_?”

 

“I don’t know where she is.”  Bob dares to speak a little louder, though not by much.  It’s probably the most words he’s had to string together for a fucking sentence in a fucking long time.  And all this talking and shit’s starting to make Jay nervous.

 

Fucking Silent Bob isn’t fucking _talkative_ , he’s _silent._   Or did that bitch ruin that (him) already?

 

Jay shakes his head to clear all the crap running through it and tries to focus.  “What do you mean you don’t know?  How the hell are you two Fuckers gonna fuck off to Vegas together and elope and become strippers or whatever, if you don’t know where the fuck she is?” 

 

“She’s gone, Jay.”  Bob enunciates the words, as though he thinks Jay’s not thinking straight.

 

A slow molten burning builds inside Jay.  Jay’s never been good at hiding his emotions and shit and they explode like a frigging volcanic eruption. 

 

“She left you?!”  He spits out, hands fisting in his lap.  “After all this fucked up shit, she up and _left_?  I’m gonna _kill_ the bitch…”

 

Bob grabs for Jay’s hands before he can pull out the fucking IV.  “No, Jay, _I left her..._ ”

 

Jay looks at Bob for the first time in disbelief, and then in anger.  He cusses Bob out through clenched teeth, “What the fuck did you do that for?!  Do you know what I’ve fucking _been through_ so that you can have your fucking _happy ending_?!  Huh?  Do ya?!”

 

For the first time Bob looks pissed, “I never asked for that!  I…”

 

Jay’s sure he’s going to go off on a fucking nice long shitass tangent so he cuts in with a derisive laugh.  “Never asked for it?!  She’s all you ever fucking talked about!  To Holden, to anyone…  Fuck, Bob, you said it yourself: you’re always ‘chasing Amy.’  Well I fucking found her for you and I fucking left for your fucking happiness!  And this is the thanks I get?  You fucking ditched her for what exactly?  _I_.  _Don’t_.  _Understand_.” 

 

He spells out the last bit carefully for Bob, wondering if he was gonna have to hire someone to write it out in the freaking sky for him to get it.

 

Bob visibly deflates. 

 

“I…”  Bob stutters— _fucking stutters!_   “...didn’t know what I wanted.   For a long time she was what I wanted but… she’s not it anymore.  She’s not ‘the One.’”

 

Jay groans.  Lamenting how it’s the longest shitass sentence Bob has ever said to him _and_ the most complicated. 

 

_Fucking shit_.

 

“Oh great,” Jay moans, edging close to histrionics and not giving a fuck.  “So I have to go through this shit every time you get a new girlfriend?  That’s fucking _messed up!_ ” 

 

“What about you?”  Bob growls like it means something.  “What about Justice or any of the other women you’ve screwed?” 

 

Jay laughs again, slightly hysterical.  “As if.  Shit, they never mattered, just tits and pussies.  Only you…” 

 

Jay clamps a hand over his mouth and shuts his eyes, groaning.  He gone and fucked up again. 

 

After a few deep breaths he calms himself down enough to take his hand away from his mouth and says, clear as fuck, “If there’s anything I’ve learned these past weeks on the fucking streets it’s that there’s _no such thing_ as a fucking heterosexual life mate.  There just isn’t.”

 

“Jay…”

 

_Shit.Shit.Shit._

Jay turns the fuck away from him and tries to roll towards the wall, it’s just as cold but more fucking bearable to look at.  “Just leave, Fucker.  Go back to Amy, or Jessica, or Heidi, any other fucking bitch you want to fuck and leave me the _fuck_ alone.”    

 

He hears the chair scrap against the floor and tries to feel some satisfaction that he did it, he’d driven Bob the fuck away.  But all he feels is cold and shitty and the pain from the withdrawal is even fucking worse and even though he’d been through this shit before he hadn’t known that was fucking _possible_. 

 

He starts to shiver uncontrollably.

 

That’s when someone sits on the edge of his bed. 

 

And it could only be one certain fucker, the way the bed sags under his heavy-ass weight. 

 

Jay is about to turn around with some sarcastic remark about the fucking bed breaking when he makes the mistake of looking into Bob’s eyes.

 

Jay’s breath catches because what’s there _can’t be there_ and if it is he’s totally screwed.

 

Because he’s seen that same frigging look on Bob’s face before towards hoes and bitches, but never towards him and never this… intense.

 

Bracing himself on both sides of Jay’s pillow the tubby motherfucker leans in closer to Jay.

 

And closer…

 

And then ever fucking closer…

 

“What the fuck are you…?”  Jay has time to gasp out, before the gap between them is closed completely

 

If Jay had been imagining something short and sweet for their first kiss in his fantasies he was dead fucking _wrong_.

 

Bob claims his mouth, fucking claims _Jay_ , and takes no prisoners.  There’s some kind of intent and _intense_ shit in this kiss that Bob’s determined to get across and he isn’t stopping until he’s fucking sure he’s made his point.  _No fricking hold bars back._

 

Jay moaning beneath Bob apparently satisfies the tubby bastard and he pulls away. 

 

Jay pants for several minutes afterward, gulping down air, and Bob just watches with a frigging smirk on his shitass (gorgeous) face.  A shit-eating grin that proves he’s not at all sorry for stealing Jay’s wind away.

 

When Jay can finally speak again he tries to growl, “ _Don’t fuck with me, Bob_ …”    

 

To Jay’s utter horror it comes across more as begging.

 

That’s when there’s a knock on the door.  Jay cursing up a shit-storm and Bob (still) looking pleased-as-fucking-punch with himself, turn to see a nurse frowning at them accusingly on the other side. 

 

“Excuse me, this patient is not allowed to have visitors outside of family.”

 

Jay snarls, suddenly irrationally terrified they’re going to take Bob away from him to the point he thinks he might just shit himself to keep anyone from trying. 

 

“I don’t _got_ family, _lady_.”  Jay sneers the word. _Cunt._   “He’s it.  This _patient’s_ name is Jay and this here is my Heterosexual Life Mate, Silent Bob…”  He trails off in shock. 

 

He’d said the fucking spiel automatically, before he could even _think_ to stop himself.

 

The bitch’s eyebrows fly up.  “‘ _Heterosexual’_ Life Mate?”

 

Oh _shit_.

 

“Just ‘Life Mate’ is fine.”  Bob speaks up from beside him and Jay turns to stare at Bob in disbelief, both at his talking and at his words, because _what the actual fuck?_   He _couldn’t_ have heard right.  He couldn’t of _fucking heard right!_

 

But Bob is busy staring down the bitch-ass nurse who’s looking increasingly nervous, glancing up and down the hallway like a scared shitless, homophobic rabbit. 

 

Finally she nods reluctantly.  “It’s not usually done, letting in partners of your… persuasion… but if you really are all he has…”

 

Bob nods once back, perfunctory-like. 

 

She gives a small smile that Jay immediately wants to punch off her fucking face.  It’s not that she’s a bad-looking cunt but he just wants her to _stop looking at Bob and_ _fuck off._ How fucking deficient is she?

“Very well,” she patters, “just call me if you need anything.  I’m Amy, by the way.”  It’s a fucking suggestive smile she gives, or it’s probably not, but Jay hates it anyway.  Hates _her._   But maybe that’s just always gonna be his fate concerning bitches named ‘Amy,’ at least around this tubby motherfucker.

 

Jay rolls his eyes and groans, barely resisting the urge to use a specific finger: at her or the whole screwed-up universe in general. 

 

“Thanks, Amy,” Bob says politely then turns pointedly to Jay when Amy leaves.

 

Jay remembers Bob’s words and quits glaring at Amy’s back long enough to stare at Bob instead, his mouth hanging open collecting fucking flies. 

 

“Lunchbox…” he says warningly, wearily.  _Fuck_ he’s tired. 

 

And apparently still high.  That’s the only explanation he can think of for all this fucked-upedness

 

“I’m not fucking with you, Jay.  Alright?  I’m not.” Bob stresses, squeezing his hand like he’s read Jay’s thoughts and is trying to convince him it’s real.

 

Jay shakes his head to clear it.  _Fuck_ , he can’t think straight… puns aside.

 

Finally he pieces together an argument, _The_ Fucking Argument really:

 

“You don’t fucking _like_ men, Bob.  Or do you not remember fucking bible study from your altar boy years?  Even if you’re not a homophobe, which I’m not frigging convinced you aren’t, you don’t like the fucking.  You don’t.  I don’t mind tongue to ass, or tongue to dick, or dick to ass, but I know for a fucking fact that you do.  You’ll get fricken’ bored of me and go back to chasing freaking chicks and find one to marry and then I’ll be right back on the street with a fucking needle in my arm again and no… just, no.  We’re not doing this.”

 

Jay takes a deep breath and bites his lip at this point, cause his eyes are starting to burn and he _will not fucking cry in front of fucking Bob_ …

 

Bob frowns.  “You’re right, I haven’t ‘done the deed’ so to speak.  But I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.  Three weeks of fucking hell without you, hell that _you_ _put me through_ …” 

 

Bob grimaces, obviously forcing himself to stop, before taking a breath and going on. 

 

“I’ve thought about it, Jay.”  He says seriously, looking him _dead in the eye_ while saying it.  “I thought about having sex with you, I thought about fucking you, hell I even thought about making love to you… cause that’s what it would be.  I thought about taking you, having you take me… which bothers me but I’ll get over it…  I thought about all this until I got so fucking hard and my dick hurt so fucking good I had to imagine it, in _detail_.  And you know what?  It was the hottest masturbation session of _my_ _life,_ and getting off was _never_ _better_.  Never felt anything like it.”

 

Bob’s eyes pierce Jay’s fucking heart as Jay tries to swallow, managing it on the third try. 

 

Just the fucking _thought_ of _Bob_ with his hand around what Jay knew had to be his big-as-fuck cock…  

 

_Shit._

 

Bob obviously sees it on Jay’s face and closes in on Jay’s space, pushing his words through.  “I don’t know for sure if it’ll work out between us sex-wise, Jay.  _I don’t know_.  But if it doesn’t we’ll just go back to what we’re already doing, screwing side-chicks for the fun of it, but at the end of the day we go home _together_.  No bitch can come between us.  You’re _it_ , Jay.  The _One_.  Got that?”

 

All those words.  _Too many fucking words out of fucking Silent Bob._ And this time there’s a fricking lump in his throat that he can’t get past.  “Lunchbox…”

 

Bob smirks that fucking kiss-ass smirk again and reaches out to trace a sensual finger over Jay’s lips.  “That kiss was pretty hot, wasn’t it?  Never felt anything like that in my _life_ , Jay.”

 

Jay’s _this close_ to admitting the same thing but he feels he has to ease the sexual tension in the room before they combust and he tries to take Bob right then and there.  Fucking pain be damned. 

 

“That’s because it was with me, smartass,” Jay can’t help his trademark smile/smirk combo, it almost hurts on his face he hasn’t worn it in such a fucking long time.  “If you was smarter you would’ve done it a fucking long time ago.”

 

Bob’s smile fades to nothing.  “If I had you wouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, looking away, like he feels a need for penance the fucking Catholic. 

 

Jay rolls his eyes at the pansy.  He can’t let this sad-ass sniveling go on any longer, it’s pathetic. 

 

“Hey!”  He calls out to Bob, dislodging his hand from Bob’s so he can smack the fucker on the shoulder.  “Not your fault Tubby Motherfucker!  I’ve been here before, with the addiction and shit, I’ll get out again.  And with your help _I won’t fucking go back_.”

 

Bob stares at Jay in disbelief and Jay doesn’t even bother to stifle his snort at Bob’s shocked expression.

 

“You’ve…”  Bob starts, sounding actually-traumatized.

 

“Been addicted to heroin on the streets.  Yeah, been there fucking done that.  ‘Bitch, what you don’t know about me I could just about squeeze into the Grand Fucking Canyon.’”  Jay mocks, feeling a twisted sense of accomplishment at hitting Bob with his own words.

 

Bob’s stricken expression doesn’t fade.  “You never told me…”

 

Jay frowns, the smug feeling fading into something... else.  Worse.  “You never told me you wanted to be a dancer in fucking Vegas either,” he reminds Bob defensively.

 

Bob shakes his head, hard.  It looks like it hurt.  “Fuck dancing, fuck Vegas, _why the_ _hell_ didn’t you tell me you were on the street?!”   

 

Jay shrugs noncommittally.  It had never occurred to him and… “Because it didn’t matter.  I went through a lot a shit before I met you.  I probably never mentioned my first fucking was with a guy either, or that my fuckup of a dad beat me bloody because of it, the Fucker.” 

 

These admissions don’t seem to be helping anything; if anything, Bob is looking downright pissed.    

 

“You’re going to _tell me_ _everything!_ ”  Bob demands like a motherfucking boss, leaving Jay slack-jawed.  “I want to know…  I mean, _your father_ fucking did that to you?!  And you went to his fucking _funeral_?!” 

 

“There was the money…”  Jay tries to defend.

 

“ _As if I care about some fucking cash_ ,” Bob snaps back.  He sighs when Jay flinches and draws back.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bob addresses his hands a few minutes later, after some calming breaths.  “But I need to know these things, ok?” 

 

Jay eyes him warily.  “Why?  S’ not as if you can change anything…”

 

“I _need_ to know,” Bob grounds out, “So I can _protect_ you.” 

 

Jay huffs out a derisive laugh, “I don’t need any fucking…”

 

“So I can stop you from going to any fucking funerals for the prick, or pricks, who ruined your life!”  Bob cuts him off.  “So I can help you get over this addiction to heroin which _you must_ _know_ never goes away completely!  You probably even knew it would happen coming up here!  _Fuck Jay!_ ” 

 

Bob looks away again with a muffled sob. 

 

Jay can’t fucking stand it any longer; _there_ _really is_ _nothing_ _sadder_ than watching a tubby motherfucker weep like a fucking child.

 

“Ok!  Fine!  _You win!_   I’ll tell you everything, my entire fucking sob life story.  But you gotta promise too, ok?  You gotta fucking swear you won’t keep any more secrets from me!  Cross your fucking heart, cause we’re gonna close the Grand Fucking Canyon gap, Bob…  Got it?”

 

Bob nods slowly.

 

Jay sits up as much as he can and pulls Bob towards him, sealing the deal between them and using a little tongue to do it. 

 

Yeah, he could get used to soul-kissing Bob. 

 

He pulls back and shines up his hottest smile at Bob.  “That’s just a little taste of the good you gonna get once we ditch this joint.” 

 

Bob’s eyes had fluttered closed and he was looking fucking delirious, but at the word “ditch” his eyes fly back open and he’s back to default serious mode. 

 

“No Jay,” he says firmly, tone brooking no argument.  “We’re staying here.  We’re doing this right.  You need to finish detoxing before we get the hell out of this hellhole.  You’re on a narcotic antagonist…” 

 

“I’m on _fucking what_?”  Jay exclaims.  “They’ve fucking drugged me?!  Are they shit crazy, I was already _frigging drugged_ …”

 

“Yes, you’re on drugs.”  Silent Bob tells him carefully and pats his hand as though trying to calm a skittish wild animal.  “And we can’t go home until you’ve finished all of them, the whole course.” 

 

“But Bob…”  Jay pleads, tries to put on his best puppy pout.

 

“No ‘buts’ Jay… at least, not until you get home.”  Bob’s smile is wicked, before it fades into something softer. 

 

He reaches out and traces Jay’s face. “It’s just this once.  You’ll never have to do it again.  I swear to God and whatever the fuck other deities there are: _You’re never going to be here again_.”  Bob stresses the last part, his hand cupping Jay’s cheek. 

 

Bob’s gentleness in itself is painful, but fuck if Jay cares about pain anymore.

 

But Jay has to make sure of one last thing, the Big Ass Test to see if this Fucker really means what he’s saying.

 

“I’m fucked up, Bob.”  Jay admits earnestly and doesn’t look away.  He needs to read Bob’s reaction.  He doesn’t want to say what he’s saying, he sure as hell doesn’t want to fucking _go there_ , but he has to.  He _has_ to make sure.

 

Bob opens his mouth to protest, but Jay beats him to it.

 

“No, I am _seriously fucked up_.  Alright?  And not just with the heroin.  I’ve got a shit past that’s fucked me up pretty bad and I’m still not 100% fucking sure you’re gonna want to be around when it hits the fan.  So do us both a favor, if you can’t fucking _deal with it_ , walk away now.  Walk the fuck away and don’t look back.”  Jay’s not sure how he gets the words out, and he feels kind of hollow once they’re out there, like he’s dug them out with a scalpel or pulled them out with a syringe, but he knows he’s not going to put Bob through his shit if the tubby motherfucker can’t take it.   

 

But Bob’s expression is too hard to read and finally Jay breaks eye contact.

 

_Fuck._

 

Two hands land on his shaking shoulders, forcing him to look back up. 

 

No hiding.

 

“I can take it.”  Bob assures him, looking him right fuck in the eye when he says it.  “I have history too, not as fucked up as yours sounds but fucked up in other ways.  We’ll deal with it.  We’ll move on.  And then we’ll never mention it again.  Ok?”

 

“Ok,” Jay agrees, then eyes him suspiciously.  “No fucking therapists involved right?”

 

Bob nods, holds up a hand and swears, “No fucking therapists involved.”    

 

“Fine.”  Jay says, leaning back into the pillows and pouting slightly, before _it_ occurs to him and he smiles up at Bob slyly.

 

“And just to clarify it’s _my_ _ass_ that gets the fucking, Lunchbox, not your virgin one.  So don’t worry ‘bout that shit, ok?”

 

Jay watches with some satisfaction as Bob closes his eyes and nods, and when he swallows, Jay tracks the movement.

 

Jay smirks at him, lowers his voice conspiratorially, “Yeah, you think inside a pussy’s tight?  You have no fucking idea how good it feels to slide your dick into a …”

 

“Jay, enough!”  Bob groans while covering his ears.  “After three weeks of… this is fucking _torture_!” 

 

Jay laughs, “And it’s only gonna get worse.  You and me, we’re gonna be so hot together.  All the bitches and all the dudes’ll wanna fuck us and we’ll just tell them to fuck off ‘cause we don’t fucking need them… all the time anyways.  Wait… you’re weird about threesomes.  They can just fuck off then.  I’m willing to give up the pussy if you are…  If it works.”  Jay adds as a side note.  “If not we’ll go back to the dudes and chicks by day and hanging out at night watching ‘The Breakfast Club’ or whatever girly ass shit you like.  I don’t care anymore.” 

 

Bob leans forward to capture Jay’s mouth again, and Jay can tell he likes this new way of shutting Jay the fuck up.  Jay has no complaints either.

 

And Jay doesn’t care.  Not really.  He’s not an idiot, he knows not everything’s about sex.  Bob being there proves that.  Even if there’s no sex there’s obviously _something_.  And while Jay’s normally not a romantic shit, as long as he gets to keep Bob, it’s worth the effort... 

 

Though he smirks at the obvious bulge in Bob’s pants.  Nah, he doesn’t think there’ll be any problems.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title is from Reba McEntire’s song “And Still.” (NOT Alanis Morissette’s “Still” from the move “Dogma.”) At first I had visions of Jay wandering the streets of Manhattan and running into Bob and Amy. Then I realized I wasn’t that cruel, but the title stuck.


End file.
